Doctor, My Heart's Broken
by goctyudicbdkvhb175749674
Summary: Matthew metaphorically exploded. Just as his shift at the clinic closed out, he snapped, and that night he ended both his medical residency and the relationship he had with his emotionally abusive parents. Now, it's up to his cousin Alfred, his best buddy Carlos, his uncle Francis, and his new "awesome" friend Gilbert to pick up the pieces and let Matthew rediscover himself.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Cold Hands**

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 **\- Constantly cold hands are a common symptom of anxiety -**

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* * *

Really, honestly, and without a hint of untruth, Matthew couldn't remember the last time his hands felt warm.

He couldn't. He really couldn't. He tried, and tried, and the next day he tried some more, but he really, honestly, couldn't, and perhaps wouldn't, remember.

He did know one thing, though.

He knew it well.

Well, two things, actually.

The first one, you already know: That his hands were always cold.

Second thing: Matthew was, without a doubt, unabashedly, absolutely, positively, miserable.

He knew why, but he didn't know when or where it began. It was just with all the exams, and pressure, and after school tutoring, and having his parents call him stupid until he got that stupid 98 on that report card, and feeling alone, and being alone, and having no friends all the time, and, GOD. Oh, dear, God. Matthew's head span and swirled with all the things he had to do, all the things he should have done, every failure and shortcoming and every time he fell flat of everyone's expectations.

His parents had never hit him, never laid a finger on him, and Matthew felt guilty, and ashamed, and plain embarrassed to think in such a way. But seriously, seriously, SERIOUSLY. They harped him and chewed his heart out with curses and verbal punches when one terribly terrible day, he'd gotten his first grade under a 95.

It was a 94, a 94.98, and yes, Mr. Lucinda refused, absolutely refused, to round him up by just 0.02 of a point.

 _It's just a 94,_ they'd say.

 _You're doing so well in school, Matthew!_ his teachers told him.

 _Dammit! I wish my grades were like yours!_ his peers exclaimed.

 _I'd do anything to be you right now,_ his classmates said.

But no. No, no, no, NO.

 _Seriously, man? You're panicked over this one assignment. Come on, you're good enough!_

No, Matthew wasn't good enough. Matthew would never, ever, ever, ever in a million, billion, trillion damn years be good enough. Because to his parents, he was never good enough.

They wouldn't, they couldn't, they _shouldn't_ love him. Not until at least after he completed his medical residency.

 _You have to be a doctor, Matthew, and I'm not sorry. It's been decided for you, clear and cut. You're going to Med school, whether you like it or not. Trust me; you'll thank me later._

So as Matthew, with all the jargon and paranoia and disappointment in himself in his heart running circles around his sanity, shut off the blaring alarm at 4:30 in the morning, he couldn't help but feel miserable.

He didn't want to be here, seven years into medical school - on the accelerated program of course - loneliness at its peek, he himself flailing and unwilling and feeling as if he was failing. Matthew didn't want to be a doctor. He doesn't want to be a doctor. Not a doctor, GODDAMMIT.

Mom and Dad told him that he should be grateful, that he should be thankful, that they're paying, that they're doing whatever it takes to help his lazy ass succeed, that they care enough to control his life and his time and every fiber within his being.

Mom and Dad told him that he should do better, study harder, put in more hours. Be the son that they want, be the person that they want, be everything that they want. He owes the world, he owes his success, owes his everything to them.

Mom and Dad told him that he was just complaining, just whining, just being lazy and stupid and short-sighted, that being a doctor should be, being a doctor is, what he wants.

 _It's a first world problem, Matthew. There're people who'd kill for the opportunities you have. Don't just throw it away!_

Well, you didn't have to yell it to him in his face, after the string of curse words you chucked at him!

Goddammit, goddammit, GOD FUCKING DAMMIT.

5:30 A.M., and Matthew was boarding the bus to his residency.

Hours were brutal and the work was miserable and everything was miserable and Matthew was miserable.

End, end already, let this nightmare end.

6:00 A.M. Matthew walked into the clinic, eyes and body and soul tired.

His hands felt quite cold, which sat right next from usual's door. Matthew always found that he couldn't warm them up anymore, no matter how hard he tried, and he couldn't get them to stop shaking, either.

That worried him. He didn't want his hands to shake, not during surgery and with a life on the line.

And sure, being a doctor was hard, and required a metric ton of school, and made him tired, and down, and weak, and sad, and all things under the sun that were bad and unhappy, but most of all, especially and absolutely and surely, the thing, the one thing Matthew despised about being a doctor the most, was that a life, a fucking life, rested in his hands.

He couldn't handle that. He just can't handle that! That someone's surgery, someone's medication, someone's health, someone's fucking, goddamn life, laid right there in Matthew's hands. He couldn't take it, he just can't take it!

Matthew felt like exploding, like a ticking time bomb, feeling as if he'd crash and burn any day, any hour, any minute, any second.

Any day.

Any hour.

Any second.

"Matthew."

Any day.

Any hour.

Any second.

"Matthew!"

Any day.

Any hour.

Any second.

"MATTHEW WILLIAMS."

Matthew screamed.

"Matthew! I need your help, the paperwork's killing me!"

Matthew felt his wrist grabbed, and his numb body was being tugged along, his arm like a limp noodle.

Another fellow medical resident came up to him, her expression just as frantic.

"Matthew! There's been an emergency in room 4587! I need your help."

"Matthew."

"Matthew!"

"Come here, come here, come here!"

Matthew's hands felt cold, and he couldn't get them to warm up.

* * *

1:02 P.M.

Matthew felt like having an aneurysm.

Hands sweaty, head unsteady, feet cold, knees like jelly.

Matthew sat in the break room.

He had twenty minutes for lunch, but he took one look at his sandwich and pushed it away when he realized that he wasn't hungry.

Matthew could feel his feet ache, his shoulders shake, his world quake as he tried his darned hardest to get himself under control.

He wanted to cry, bawl his eyes out, but he couldn't. This was a professional environment. Can't show emotion. Can't show feelings. Just be strong, and stop complaining.

Cold hands pushed away his lunch, for Matthew was too stressed to even eat.

His stomach did the somersaults that his cold hands couldn't do.

Head shaking.

Feet aching.

Hands cold.

* * *

"You mess everything up, Matthew!"

The attending physician Matthew was currently under, Dr. Erwin, didn't like him particularly much.

"Come on, you're lucky that we're just practicing and that this isn't an actual procedure."

Matthew breathed through his nose.

"Alright, let's do this again. This time, don't mess up. Don't be a disgrace."

Matthew felt put on the spot, felt and knew and could tell that everyone, _everyone,_ was watching him.

"Be a man and complete it."

Matthew didn't, or rather couldn't, say anything about it. Anything, absolutely anything, that went even slightly against the grain of Mom and Dad would undoubtedly piss them off.

His instructor's comment kind of hit close to home, though.

He remembered what one of his fellow residents, jokingly and of course in a friendly manner, said to him: _"Geez, Matthew, you're gayer than a pride parade float!"_

Mr. - sorry, Dr. - Erwin must have for sure overheard.

But Matthew is gay, not that he'd told anyone except for his cousin Alfred, even and especially his parents.

His parents would probably disown him if they found out.

Matthew could feel his hands grow cold.

* * *

10:43 P.M.

"How's school?"

"Are test grades good?"

"What does your attending physician have to say about you?"

10 P.M., on every Tuesday, Matthew's parents would call him and bombard him with questions. Nothing about Matthew, though. It was all just about Dr. Williams.

"It," Matthew began, his exhausted voice floundering, "it's going good, Dad."

"Hey, you call me sir, now!"

"Yes sir." Matthew tried his best not to sigh.

"Don't forget about me!" cried the shrill voice of Mother. "I asked you about your test grades!"

"They're fine, too, ma'am." Matthew wanted to cry.

A simple _"How are you?"_ would have made him feel as if he was worth something, anything, other than just his medical degree.

"I have to go now. I'm busy," Matthew spoke into the phone. He felt as if he was talking to a device rather than the two actual people on the other side.

"Don't just ignore us! You never call home."

 _But you're the ones who yell at me whenever I try to call you. You always do that. Whatever I do, whatever I say, is wrong._

"Sorry. I've just been busy."

"That's no excuse."

"MATTHEW!" Matthew heard the voice of Dr. Erwin.

"I have to go," Matthew said, his voice calm and flat and careful. "I love you."

"Goodbye."

The phone line went dead.

"An 'I love you, too' would've been nice," Matthew muttered to himself as he shuffled down the hall, back hunched and hopes crushed.

* * *

12:43 A.M.

Matthew was afraid that he'd just keel over and sleep, but he didn't even have time to _think_ about what he'd do once he got home.

Everything was a blur, and that scared him. He didn't want for his mind to be in a haze when he saw patients, because they were people, not a rubber dummy where it didn't matter if you cracked a rib or two.

Seeing patients scared Matthew. He didn't like being in charge of a life. He didn't like being responsible for saving someone. So, as he rushed around with his fellow staff and students, as he rushed around the IV tubes and sanitizing alcohol hand gels and soaps and tubes and bandages, he prayed that oh, oh God, oh, please, Lord have mercy on him. He knew that everyone was going through the same thing; he knew that his residency story wasn't the worst out there.

But he didn't want to be here, he really didn't.

Day in, day out, just heaving and huffing and pushing, hoping to scratch the surface of tomorrow. Hoping that his parents would fucking love him, just for a second. Being overwhelmed every day, every single day, and Matthew didn't even want to be here. He wanted to be somewhere else, to have studied another course for college, to have done something else with his god-given life.

Someone having pneumonia complications. Quick! An idiot who blew his fingers off with fireworks just came in, and they need immediate attention! The sirens. The voices. The bloody chaos. It was too much, all just too much. Matthew could almost feel his soul float off from his body.

Please, let him do something else, be anywhere but here. Sure, his parents were paying for this, and Dr. Erwin didn't like Matthew that much but he was trying his best to teach him something, anything, and everyone here was so much smarter, so much brighter, so much better than Matthew, and he didn't deserve to be here, he really didn't, and he was only here because of a million privileges and more he'd received in life.

But Matthew couldn't do this, he really couldn't. This wasn't him. He couldn't imagine himself here ten years later, still rushing around and being battered about by brutal hours, all because two people insisted that he owed them. His parents said that Matthew owed them because they were the ones who pushed and decided and paid for medical school.

They told him to get his butt into gear, that he should be grateful that the program accepted his pathetic ass, cold, shaking hands and all.

Matthew was cold. His hands felt cold as he inserted a needle into someone's arm, of course with Dr. Erwin's watchful eyes drilling into Matthew's very soul.

Sweat coated Matthew's forehead from the sheer nerves that ran through him. His hair was wet, dripping, soaked in his own cold sweats.

Seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours, hours felt like days, and all the days, the days and months and years and time and life, Matthew had spent here, in this damn area of schooling and training, felt like centuries.

Beep, beep, beep went the heart rate machine.

The shouts for his name flooded his ears and droned on endlessly.

Tick-tock went the clock, its seconds tortuously slow.

Matthew washed his cold, cold hands, as he prepared for both the next patient and his hold on his thin string of sanity.

* * *

3:24 A.M.

Today was done with. He'd completed his shift, even though the edge of anxiety hadn't been taken off. As if the anxiety ever went away. Of course he'd have to wake up tomorrow; of course he'd have to do it all over again, over and over and over, again and again and again, his cycle of misery unwavering, unending, unbreakable.

Matthew wanted to break, though. He could feel himself cracking as he packed his bags.

With his eyes droopy, and his fingers ice-cold, and his very spirit fluttering only very weakly, very faintly, in his chest, Matthew prepared to leave, at least for the night. He'd squeeze in some sleep, hopefully, but as exhausted as he felt, he found himself sleeping less and less. He just couldn't bring himself to; he'd toss and turn, stretch and yearn far into the night.

Tears threatened to brim in his eyes, but Matthew kept them in.

He'd be home soon, and then he'd get a few hours of sleep if lucky, eat something if he felt up to it, and dream about art school. Oh, yeah, and some paperwork, too. A shitload of paperwork. A metric fucking ton.

Come on, just a little longer. Just a little bit longer. Just board the bus, and you'll be home in, like, an hour.

Just as Matthew packed the last few papers, someone called his name.

"MATTHEW!"

Matthew froze.

No.

No, no, no, no, no. Oh, hell, no. Fuck no. Fucking NO.

In an instant, Matthew turned, a manila file still in hand, to see his coworker, Arthur, rushing over to him. He looked frantic, and perhaps even more tired than Matthew, but for sure not as burnt out.

"Matthew, we need you, stat! We need an extra pair of hands to help with-"

Matthew didn't hear the rest.

Something within him just snapped.

He couldn't take it. He just couldn't take it anymore.

The stress, the high expectations, doing something that's so hard and he had so little passion for. Matthew was burned, burnt out of his very life being. He couldn't breathe normally anymore. He couldn't eat like a normal person anymore. He couldn't get his goddamn hands to warm up, and he certainly couldn't - or had he ever been - be happy anymore. Wait, no. Correction: He was never happy to begin with.

He'd had enough. He'd just had enough, goddammit!

Something inside Matthew just snapped, snapped like a twig that had been holding up a house. Something inside him burned and boiled and seethed, as if an ocean of gasoline had been lit on fire. As if someone had snatched away one too many cards from the card tower. As if the ticking time bomb that had been eating away at him for all twenty-six years of his life finally ran out, and hell yeah was Matthew ready to finally both explode and crumble.

Pop went the pressure cooker whose lid hadn't been released.

Snap went the little twig holding up the big house.

Boom went the pool of oil as the combustion overtook Matthew's very core.

"GODDAMMIT, I QUIT!"

Heads turned, all eyes on Matthew, the man himself having his heartbeat, having it pound so violently in his chest that he could hear it clear as day in his ears. Matthew had spent way too much damn time studying about all the veins in his body, but no one told him that they'd all be popping out from under his skin as anger, frustration, sadness, and burnout were having a field-day with Matthew's extremely unsteady - and currently extremely unhinged - emotions.

"Matthew, what are you talking about?"

Arthur looked confused, but Matthew was hellbent on putting the eraser to any remaining uncertainties about his mental state.

Matthew took the stethoscope that hung around his neck like a dead-weight and violently slammed it on the ground, stomping it harshly with his foot for good measure. He didn't care if he was acting childish and immature. His parents were the two most immature people he knew, two people who wanted the world while they had nothing to offer in return, two people who threw a fucking tantrum whenever they didn't get what they wanted, two people who verbally berated Matthew for just existing, two people as fake as the plastic of Matthew's glasses, two people who expected everything yet could do nothing.

"I QUIT! FUCK IT! IT'S FUCKING OVER, FUCKING MEDICAL RESIDENCY!" Matthew was screaming, but he couldn't stop. Years of anger and self-loathing and loneliness and sadness and misery and doing whatever other people wanted him to do was a second too long, a second too much, a moment too intense for him to bear.

"FUCKING, I JUST DO WHATEVER PEOPLE WANT ME TO DO! I DON'T GIVE A FUCK IF I'M BEING CHILDISH RIGHT NOW! BUT WHAT ABOUT ME? WHAT ABOUT MY PROBLEMS? WHAT ABOUT WHAT I WANT? MY PARENTS, MY FUCKING PARENTS, THEY'RE THE ONES WHO WANT ME TO BE HERE, NOT ME. THEY'RE THE ONES WHO SAID I'M STUPID BECAUSE I GOT A FUCKING 94 ON A REPORT CARD THAT ONE TIME. THEY'RE WHY, THEY'RE THE ONLY REASON WHY, **I'M HERE.**

THEY DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT MY HAPPINESS. I KNOW THEY DON'T. THEY JUST WANT TO BRAG THAT THEIR SON'S A DOCTOR, WELL, GUESS WHAT, I'M DONE. I'M FUCKING DONE WITH THAT SHIT!"

Arthur looked on at Matthew in complete and utter terror at his up until this point mild-mannered, perhaps slightly finicky coworker, but also within his eyes was sympathy.

"Listen, mate," Arthur said, arms in the air, voice calm and careful. For once it wasn't Matthew who had to be the level-headed one, the good one, the one who solved everything without even a thank-you in return.

Arthur continued. "I know it's rough. I know you've been pushed too far, stretched too thin, maybe I can help you negotiate some better hours, but mate, you're, like, what? At least seven, eight years into this. Don't let one blow-out be the end of your career, man."

"My career?" Oh, if Arthur had no damn idea the fucking sore nerve he'd just struck, he'd for sure know within the next thirty seconds. Matthew, personally, was insulted. "MY CAREER? YOU THINK THIS IS **MY** CAREER? HELL NO. IT'S MY PARENTS' CAREER. THEY COULDN'T BE FUCKING DOCTORS THEMSELVES, SO THEY HAD TO LIVE IT ALL THROUGH ME, GODDAMMIT. WELL GUESS, FUCKING, WHAT? I'M DONE. I'M FUCKING DONE. DR. ERWIN, IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, FUCK YOU, CAUSE GUESS WHAT? I AM GAY AS A FUCKING PRIDE PARADE FLOAT, GOT IT?"

Matthew was just spitting out words with no rhyme or rhythm. He didn't even know what he was saying, or the consequences. At this moment, at this first high Matthew'd had in a long, long time, at this high of pure, unadulterated, unhindered, unquestionable rage, at this point of no return, at him crossing the goddamn Rubicon and just moving on with his fucking life, Matthew'd had enough.

He was hysterical.

"NOPE. NOPE. I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE! GOODBYE, GOOD VERY WELL BYE, HERE'S MY FUCKING PAPERWORK, MY FUCKING BADGE, REVOKE MY GODDAMN LICENSE. TWENTY-SIX YEARS, TWENTY-SIX YEARS OF TRYING TO MAKE PEOPLE WHO I KNOW'LL NEVER LOVE ME, NEVER GIVE A DAMN ABOUT ME UNLESS I MAKE 200K A YEAR. SO THAT THEY CAN LEECH OFF IT. TWO PEOPLE WHO THINK THE WORLD FUCKING OWES THEM SOMETHING, TWO PEOPLE WHO THINK THAT **I** OWE THEM EVERYTHING. BUT GUESS WHAT? GUESS FUCKING WHAT? I OWE THEM NOTHING, FUCKING NOTHING. I TRIED TO GIVE THEM THE WORLD, BUT THEY CAN'T EVEN LOOK AT ME IN THE EYES, ALRIGHT?

IT'S LIKE I'M NOT A WORTHWHILE PERSON, LIKE I'M NOT SOMEONE WITH FEELINGS, TOO."

Matthew was stripping, not in the nudity sense, but stripping himself of, well, metaphorically but not literally, everything. His career. His residency. His badge. Any hope of his parents' approval. Everything.

The Phoenix is supposed to rise from the ashes, yeah? And after burning through all the baggage within the span of five minutes, Matthew felt like a fucking Phoenix. He was sure that he had no future left anyway, so why even try? Why even try to stay grounded within the reality that had failed him time and time again?

Matthew ripped his name tag from his coat, threw his bag full of paperwork and icky stuff across the floor - even within his rage he still didn't want to destroy a patient's paperwork; it wasn't their fault that he was having an existential crisis right now - and every pen, every Popsicle stick, every pin, every rubber band, every eraser, every pencil, every piece of paper within his pockets, all the little knick-knanks he'd acquired from his residency, all the little doctor-y items that plagued his pockets like locusts, he metaphorically and literally threw out, onto the floor, because he'd fucking quit.

Even his badge was tossed to the curb, and greater still his catharsis would have been if he had his medical diploma to rip in half.

Then, he was gone, out the door, just as quickly and suddenly as his outburst had come and went, and considering that he'd just lost his career, his residency, his parents' love - if they had any for him in the first place - and possibly his apartment, too, he felt scarily calm.

Matthew didn't wait for the bus to come.

He walked through the night, hands cold but calmly slipped into his thick jacket. Matthew didn't know how long he'd been walking. It was just that somehow, someway, he was now standing in front of a lake.

Speaking of lakes, though, ever since Med school started, Matthew hadn't been able to find the time, any time at all, to go swimming. He made a mental note to go to the pool next week with Alfred, just to unwind and have some damn fun, because he fucking wanted to have fun for once.

Water to put out the fire in his soul.

Matthew's phone rang.

Without fear, without hesitance, without weakness, he answered.

"Hello." Matthew's greeting was not a question. It was an answer.

Of course it'd be his father.

"MATTHEW. We heard what happened! We know what you did! Do you realize how embarrassing this is? How embarrassing this is for your mom and I? What about us? What about our feelings, too, Matthew? You WORTHLESS, WORTHLESS, sorry excuse of a person! You goddamn son of a bitch!"

"Your feelings, huh?" Matthew asked, voice calm, like silk, cool as the body of water he stood in front of. "Fucking asshole."

"WHAT did you just say to ME?" His father sounded dangerous, as if he was about to murder someone.

Matthew didn't care, cause that someone was Matthew. Matthew cared for sure if his father went out and hurt someone, but Matthew? Matthew didn't care. Dad could do what he wanted. Matthew didn't, he couldn't, have a care in the world for his own safety.

Matthew's voice was flat, but also smooth, and it was in good taste. "Yeah, about that. I hate you, you know? You've ruined my life. I wasted seven years, seven fucking years."

"We did this for YOU."

"For me? Hmm. I'll have to disagree." Matthew couldn't believe the wave of calm washing over him right now. "Goodbye."

"You call me SIR."

"Goodbye, you fucking bitch."

Matthew pressed the end call button before his father could even reply, and for good measure, he threw his phone into the lake.

There. Gone. His parents couldn't call him back.

Wednesday, 4:29 A.M.

Matthew's hands burned with cold.

* * *

 **The plot bunny strikes again!**

 **Seriously, though, I should start actually finishing stories before I start new ones. XD**

 **Well, I hope that you enjoyed this chapter, and I'm sorry this isn't that accurate to the actual residency experience. I'm not personally a resident, but I have experienced my fair share of burnout. Of course, not on the same level as poor Matthew, and I hope that I didn't insult any actual medical residents with my glaring inaccuracies, but I really just had to write this down. Writing down ideas like this are like a scratch that needs itching.**

 **I hope that you enjoyed this chapter, and other than that, have a nice day and be kind to people and turtles. :)**

 **I like turtles.**


	2. Red Eyes in Blue Water

**Chapter 2: Red Eyes in Blue Water**

* * *

Matthew couldn't feel anything.

He was numb, absolutely numb.

Years of work in med school, wasted.

A life of trying to make Mom and Dad happy just one damn time, gone. With the single snap of a finger.

Oh, yes. Matthew felt like a fucking phoenix.

But he also felt numb.

In fact, he scared himself with how calm he felt.

A sensation of peacefulness fluttered through his chest, a sensation of relief and release and revelation that'd never washed over him before, not even once, in his entire goddamn life. As Matthew sat down on a park bench, mind dazed and hands cold, he found that he couldn't feel a thing, not a thing at all.

He didn't feel on top of the world, yet he hadn't hit rock bottom quite yet.

He wasn't flying, nor did he sink. He simply bobbed, up and down only slightly as he struggled for air, on top of the water.

Matthew felt around his near empty pockets, and pulled out a few crumpled dollars as if destiny had intended it. It was destiny; he could feel it.

Never in Matthew's life could he ever imagine himself being a doctor, and fate came a few years late, but it came nevertheless.

Matthew stood, his feet unable to feel the ground they trekked upon. He neither stomped nor had steps light as air. It was just a normal walk, one at brisk pace yet at minimal effort. Matthew couldn't remember the last time he'd done minimal effort. 110% every second of every day, but machines like that age slowly to become slow. It was only a matter of time. Matthew knew, because for such a life-altering, world-ruining blowout which threw away his career, future, and parental relationships, Matthew wasn't upset at all.

Just numb.

Very numb.

From his hands to his toes to his own soul, he felt numb.

* * *

9:00 A.M.

Matthew, using the crumpled dollar bills he found in his pocket - bills he was sure destiny had kept, just for him - paid his bus fair.

He had just enough money. Down to the very cent, he had just enough money to make it to Alfred's neighborhood.

Yup, destiny. He was sure of it.

Cold hands folded on his lap, shoulders slumped, and back backed into the back corner of the bus, Matthew sat, not sad nor mad, or happy or joyous or anything.

He just focused on the rumble of the bus underneath his seat. His sneakers vibrated and so did his brain. Everything was in a tizzy, an absolute tizzy, yet everything stood still, just for a second-moment.

Matthew felt it, felt it deep down in his bones. This deep, deep, down appreciation, approbation, consolidation of everything and everything and everything and just nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing went through his head. Everything ran circles around his cranium. No, skull. Everything ran around his skull. Matthew felt the medical terminology fade from his head by the millisecond.

Stupid milliseconds. They were so sciencey, so official.

Matthew's head was purging, was burning, was disposing just month's upon month's worth of knowledge. It was as if Matthew's brain had hit the incinerate button. No medical term, no lecture, no medical demonstration was safe from being tossed into the fire of Matthew's soul. There goes the phoenix again, destroying ruin.

Matthew felt dizzy.

And numb. Very, very, very, very numb.

* * *

11:00 A.M.

Mathew felt nothing as he reached his hand up and rang the all too familiar doorbell of his cousin Alfred's house.

The front door opened with a swing too powerful for a man of Alfred's stature.

Matthew stood there, silent. He wasn't contemplating a thing. He refused to contemplate. He did that all the time in grad school. He couldn't do that anymore, not now. His brain was about as useful as a scrambled egg right now.

"Mattie!"

Alfred's lone hair cowlick perked up hilariously high. For a moment, just an infinite moment, Alfred said not a thing.

Just as soon as the silence came, it left.

"You. You alright, man?" Alfred asked, words stumbling on top of each other.

Matthew shook his head.

"You look like death, by the way," Alfred pointed out.

Matthew nodded.

"Here, let's get you inside. Take a shower, and then we'll talk." Alfred gingerly grabbed Matthew by the shoulders and led him into his small yet cozy house.

* * *

Matthew's hair was dripping wet through the towel on his head. Other than that he wore nothing but a bath robe and a pair of fuzzy slippers.

Alfred really liked his fuzzy slippers.

Matthew and Alfred sat on the couch, Alfred offering tea and Matthew declining. Matthew's face rested, expressionless. His face had gone through a lot. Contorting anger, the holding back of tears, the yelling from only half a day ago.

"So," Alfred began, his voice so much softer than it'd ever been."Your parents called. Yelled me up a storm, all that shit. I'm proud of you; you should know that much. I know how you feel about med school. And I know that your folks are, well. They're assholes. Although I think you already know that."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Hey, chin up, kid." Alfred looked Matthew right in the eyeballs. He smiled. "Shouldn't call you kid since you're older, but the expression's fitting." Alfred chuckled.

Matthew still said nothing. He didn't laugh. He didn't even crack a smile.

"Dude, you're starting to worry me." Alfred gave out an audible sigh. "I know you're not one to talk much, but I'm worried, okay?"

Matthew stayed quiet. He was used to staying quiet. He was used to being the good one, the quiet one, the one who didn't jump around and mess things up and make a ruckus.

"You know, not to scare you, but they're probably going to kick you out of your apartment since you're no longer a medical resident." Alfred stood, hands in pockets and expression one of pure uncertainty. Then, he suddenly looked certain again. "But you can stay here as long as you like."

"Thanks." Matthew decided that he wanted Alfred's nasty tea after all.

Alfred smiled and ruffled Matthew's hair up a bit.

"No problem. Stay for a while. You deserve a break."

"Thanks, Alfred."

"You're welcome."

"You want some space?" Alfred asked, tentatively.

"Yeah. That'd be nice. Thanks."

"No need to thank me."

* * *

3:00 P.M.

Alfred stayed around the house the entire day. He'd left Matthew alone for the better part of the afternoon, but he was always within yelling distance as Matthew sat on the couch and mindlessly flipped through the T.V. Matthew was numb, and his feelings were numb, and so was his face.

Alfred offered Matthew lunch, but Matthew just couldn't. His stomach was doing flip-flops.

"You sure?" Alfred had asked. "You look awfully gangly."

"I'm sure," Matthew had said.

Alfred hung around like an air in a room. He dusted, and shuffled through what looked to be an electricity bill, and did work on his computer some, and eventually he just joined Matthew on the couch as they watched awful, awful daytime television.

"You want to do something?" Alfred inquired. "A movie? Eating out tonight? Anything to take your mind off of, well, everything?"

Matthew was about to say no when a thought struck him. "Swimming?"

"But it's the middle of winter," Alfred replied.

"Exactly."

Alfred broke out into a wide grin. "I like it! Let's go in, like, say an hour?"

"Alright," Matthew agreed. His face stayed blank, his voice nothing more than flat.

There. Like a fucking phoenix. The metaphor didn't even make sense anymore, but Matthew's soul burned and blazed and bubbled. He felt hot. He needed water, desperately, to quell the flames.

* * *

"I'm wondering who's crazy enough to go to the pool in the middle of winter." Alfred drove with Matthew snugged and bundled up in the passenger's seat.

"Us?" Matthew replied after a moment of fake ponder. It'd been a while since he'd put his sarcasm to use and cracked a joke in dry-as-a-fucking-saltine-cracker humor. He missed joking around. He missed being human.

After a moment, Alfred nodded dramatically in agreement. "Yeah." The two shared a chuckle.

Then, the street lights turned green, and Alfred fucking drove. Matthew was having the time of his life.

* * *

Okay, so maybe swimming in an indoor pool was a bit tame in comparison to what Alfred had been implying, but it was freezing. The inferno that was Matthew's emotions could only flicker, gently and quietly in his chest, as he sat chest-deep at the pool's shallow end.

No one else was here. No one else was crazy enough to jump even into an indoor pool in the middle of winter, and Matthew was certain that the only thing preventing the pool from freezing over was the burning smell of chlorine and the filter.

"OH, FUCK!"

Matthew turned to see Alfred splashing about in the water. Judging from the waves that surrounded him and the suddenness of his entry into the pool, Alfred must have done a cannon ball. Matthew shook his head. Alfred had always been the impulsive one of the family.

Matthew smiled. Actually, genuinely smiled, as he let the stress melt away. The anxiety melt away. The expectations melt away. His very brain was melting. The cold was taking the edge off everything.

He leaned against the pool wall, head rolled back so that his face was up and his hair was bobbing, up and down, up and down, in the water.

"You alright, dear cousin?" Matthew asked as he felt his old sarcastic self coming back to him.

"I'm fine! I'm fine!" Matthew could hear Alfred say. "The water's totally not freezing my ass off!"

Oh, how many fucking times had Matthew said that he was fine?

He wasn't fine now, though. Fucking phoenix. Rebirth hurts when your soul's on fire.

Eyes closed. Chin up. Nothing's fucking fine.

"And what brings you here?"

Matthew opened his eyes.

He had his face straight up, but what should have been the ceiling was instead a man.

Oh. Everything was fucking fine.

In Matthew's field of vision was the single hottest person he'd ever seen in his goddamn twenty-six years of existing.

Red eyes against the pool's blue. Hair, as white as snow. Skin that looked like milk. Defined jawline, sharp chin, muscles that could snap a two-by-four in fucking half. His German accent was just the icing on top.

Fuck was this stranger hot.

"Oh, hello there." Matthew couldn't help but stare, his head completely still as he took in this handsome new face. "I could ask the same for you. What brings you here, eh?"

"I'm Prussian," the man simply replied. He was smiling. Or was it a smirk?

Matthew could sense the ego dripping off this man along with the pool water.

"Prussians like the cold, you know?"

"You mean Germans?" Matthew asked, face both pouty and doe-eyed. Matthew prayed to God that this man was gay. So fucking hot; it'd be such a shame if he were straight.

"No, Prussian." The man scowled. He looked offended.

"Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Prussian. Please, please, I am but a lowly ant. Please accept my apology." Oh yeah, that sarcasm was coming back. It came back to Matthew real quick. Sarcasm was in his blood. Sarcasm is his blood. He could be mean, real mean if he wanted. And a fucking tease. Matthew contorted his face to look innocent, eyes wide, lashes flirtatious, lips opened slightly just so. He put the French in French-Canadian to good use.

He could hear Alfred off in the distance, yelling at this strange man to get the hell away from his cousin. Matthew ignored him; a man this fucking hot was just too good of an opportunity to pass up.

"Well, awesome me accepts your apology." The mysterious man exited Matthew's field of vision. Then, there was a splash, right next to Matthew, and Matthew flipped himself back around to be face-to-face with this white-haired, red-eyed, milk-skinned stranger. Don't forget those fucking gorgeous cheekbones.

Matthew leaned back, shoulders high and arms outstretched. Let's be a goddamn flirt today.

"So what's a cutie like you doing here? In the dead of winter?" the man inquired, lips lop-sided and eyes focused on Matthew and Matthew only.

"You think I'm a cutie? How sweet." Matthew smiled wide, his eyelashes only growing more flirty. He was a fucking flirt cause this hot man straight from heaven was being a flirt. Everyone was just flirting. Well, except for Alfred. From Matthew's vague attention to Alfred's yelling, Alfred just sounded mildly annoyed. And over-protective.

"Yeah, an absolute snack." The man winked. "What's your name? You're an absolute doll."

"Matthew. Your's?"

"Gilbert."

"Well, Gilbert," Matthew leaned in teasingly close, "I think you're quite the dish yourself."

"Oh, really?" Gilbert smirked.

Matthew licked his lips. He wanted a kiss, but withheld. Things are always better when you wait.

"Yeah, really," Matthew replied. His eyes were devouring Gilbert like the absolute dish that he was.

Matthew looked at Gilbert's chest. It was pure muscle.

"Oi, my eyes're up here!" Gilbert got in line with Matthew's vision, words irritated but tone the absolute opposite.

"Well, excuse me. Just admiring an absolute work of art," Matthew defended.

"What's your number, sweetheart?" Gilbert asked, smirk still growing if that was even possible.

"Ego, ego now." Matthew rolled his eyes, as if he was keeping a long-time friend in check. "Yesh, you're impatient, aren't you? Can't get enough of this, huh?"

Gilbert hootered out a big, loud laugh.

"So what's you're number?" Matthew returned the question.

"So sorry, but I don't have a paper. And even if I did, we're surrounded by water, yeah?" Gilbert said as he feigned regret and loss. "Paper would get real, _real_ wet."

Oh, fucking tease.

"No number until you tell me what you're all about first." Matthew could tease back real, real well.

"Well, I'm in college." Gilbert was getting closer, hands just brushing Matthew's damp hair.

"Studying what?" Matthew asked as he puckered up his lips all fine and dandy.

"Political science major."

"You mean the useless one?" Matthew snickered.

"Oh, it's not useless, if you know what I mean." Gilbert winked. Matthew whistled. He knew exactly what he meant.

" _Big_ deal, huh?" Matthew eyed Gilbert playfully. Matthew fucking _moaned._

"Yup. Works just fine."

"On the _inside,_ too, right?" Matthew asked 'innocently.'

"Oh, it's real good on the inside. You like it inside, right?"

"Not the right, the _bottom._ " At this point he and Gilbert were just oozing sexual innuendo.

Gilbert decided to throw caution to the wind altogether. He brought up one hand, formed a little hole out of his pointer-finger and thumb, and jammed that other pointer-finger right through them, hard and quick.

"You're rough, aren't ya?" Matthew was excited now.

"Very," Gilbert replied. "So, what's your number?"

In the distance, Matthew could practically hear Alfred faint.

Matthew hadn't had the time. He hadn't had the hour to flirt for a long, long time, but he was damn good at it. His uncle Francis had taught him and taught him well.

Daring. Disastrous. Flirtatious. A flaming homosexual through and through.

That was. This is.

Matthew.

Matthew leaned in close to Gilbert's ear and whispered to him his number, and on Gilbert's face spread the widest grin a man could ever hope to muster. Well, it was actually Alfred's home phone number. He'd thrown his phone into the lake, remember?

Alfred was going to be hilariously livid once Gilbert called.

* * *

On the drive home, Matthew had a stupid-happy grin on his face.

Alfred was just annoyed, and perhaps concerned.

"Oh my God, I can't believe you, flirting with a random, a fucking _random_ dude! What if he's," Alfred paused for a moment to think. "A murderer or something? Luring in guys he thinks are pretty and then slicing them to bits!"

"Calm down. I'm the one with anxiety, not you," Matthew retorted. He was so happy right now it was stupid. Being able to flirt, being able to be himself, having the goddamn time to pursue something other than med school, for now, he only wanted that out of life.

"Calm down? Calm down! That man was motioning anal sex to you with his fucking fingers! And I'm supposed to calm down?!" Alfred had paused at the red light, and he turned to Matthew, face conveying that he was very, very disturbed to have just seen his _cousin,_ his blood relative, insinuate _anal sex_ with some random German - Prussian - man.

"And I gave him my number," Matthew added.

Alfred paused again to do a double-take. Silence was he for just a moment.

As the red light switched to green and Alfred hit the gas, his jaw dropped to the floor, his teeth so comically far apart that you could stick a hand up in there.

"YOU WHAT?"

Matthew chuckled. Leave it to Alfred to be annoyingly, adorably, over-protective of his older cousin.

On the other hand, Matthew was having the high of his life, a high which scared him. He'd just made a life-altering decision a little more than twelve hours ago, and yet he was, metaphorically, high as the fucking sky. If he reached far enough, he'd touch the stars.

* * *

1:56 A.M.

Matthew laid in bed, staring. Blue walls. Blue ceiling. Blue bed. Blue, blue, blue. Alfred had painted his guest bedroom just fucking blue.

But Matthew could only think of red. Red and white.

Those fucking red eyes of that stranger against the blue water. His white-as-the-actual-snow hair.

It was midnight, and Matthew could only think of Gilbert.

He didn't want to think of anything else.

He didn't need to think of anything else.

If he thought of anything else, his mind would explode, then implode, and then he'd cry.

Matthew sighed as he turned himself over. He couldn't stand staring at the blue any longer, so he closed his eyes, thinking of red eyes and white hair and milk skin.

* * *

Matthew's eyes snapped open all on their own. He sprung himself up, his steps automatic.

It was still dark outside, but he was used to that. Stupid medical residency, making him get up at five in the goddamn morning.

Matthew looked at the clock to see that it was six.

FUCK.

Hands frantically throwing his shirt and pajama pants off, feet running to the bathroom, Matthew was going to be fucking dead for being so fucking late.

Matthew ran around the room, unsure of why it was so damn blue, but he was far too tired to even stop and think about it. He glasses still on his face, his hair an absolute bird's nest, eyes blurry and feet shaky and hands cold, cold, cold.

6:05 A.M.

And Matthew was fucking late.

Matthew ran to the bathroom, but he found no toothbrush, no toothpaste, no floss.

He checked, he ripped apart ever drawer and door. He looked for a bag, a suitcase, anything.

Floss. He sighed in relief as he pulled open a drawer and found a travel-sized floss, among other similarly sized dental-hygiene-related items.

He started flossing, brushing his teeth, and washing his face, all at once. No time to shower. Matthew never had time to shower.

Oh, fuck, where'd his bag go? Where'd his alarm go? His phone? His keys?

Matthew shook his head. He'd cross that bridge once he got there, but now, he just had to make it to the hospital, no doctor's uniform and all.

He'd find his stethoscope later.

Matthew ran downstairs and out the door. He didn't bother to close it.

It was cold, and Matthew looked behind him.

It wasn't his apartment complex. What was he doing at Alfred's house?

Then, yesterday came to him. It hit him like a crane.

He'd quit his residency. He'd gone numb, then gone to Alfred's house. The pool. The red-eyed stranger. Phone numbers. Well, Alfred's phone number.

Matthew screamed.

In an instant, the lights of Alfred's house turned on. There was a rumble, a crash, and not a minute later, Alfred stumbled out the still-open front door.

"Mattie!"

Matthew was upset, crumpled onto the snow on his knees, as everything came crashing down on him, all at once.

Matthew, for the first time since he'd quit it all, wept, but this time, Alfred was there to catch him.

Alfred hugged Matthew, and Matthew just cried.

The shock, the numb, the high, had worn off. Matthew now just felt despair.

He heard Alfred say something about getting inside and frying up some eggs and bacon.


	3. Sunny Side Up

**Chapter 3: Sunny Side Up**

* * *

Matthew was a wreck as Alfred put butter into the pan and cracked some eggs.

Face pressed against the cold marble counter, glasses barely hanging off his face, tears wetting the sleeves that curled beneath his head, Matthew was an absolute wreck.

Alfred turned to his cousin, face knitted with concern. "You like your eggs scrambled or sunny side up?"

Matthew stopped crying, just for a split second. He turned his face up and muttered, "Sunny side up."

He then slammed his head back down onto the counter, hair wet with tears as his crying continued; Alfred's hand on his shoulder only vaguely comforted him.

The sounds of Matthew's sobs and the sizzling of the pan were the only sounds which filled the room.

Matthew hated the idea of scrambled eggs. So many scrambled eggs. Food, crappy hospital food. They only had scrambled eggs. The mornings Matthew spent scarfing down powdered scrambled eggs, but it wasn't the eggs that bothered him. It was just the time, the lack of time. Matthew just wanted the time of day to fry up an egg in some fucking butter and not be hounded by internal guilt.

Butter. Butter. Everyone in the medical community was arguing over whether you should eat some fucking butter. They said butter was good, then margarine, and switched back to butter again. Which one was it? Was saturated fat good? Bad? Should you use coconut oil? Fucking grind your own goddamn cashews and squeeze the oil out? Matthew wanted butter. He wanted butter because butter tastes nice, and that's good enough. Butter's simple. It's uncomplicated. Not like fucking cashew oil. He wanted some eggs fried in some butter and some minutes to eat them.

But he had to be productive. He had no time to eat nice eggs fried in some tasty butter, so powdered, scrambled, hospital eggs it was. That was how it had been for a long time. Powdered eggs are so dry.

Run, run, run.

The rush, the dash, the frantic sprint towards the finish line. Matthew had failed and failed hard. He was an inch away. He was so close to becoming a doctor; he'd done the school and everything. But he just couldn't. It was like his legs gave out right before he won the marathon.

There was the sound of porcelain against marble, and in front of Matthew now sat a plate of bacon and sunny side up eggs.

"Want some toast with that?" Alfred asked. He had lowered his face, and he and Matthew stared at each other from behind their glasses. Matthew shook his head.

Matthew couldn't think about bread. He couldn't think about carbs. He'd read way too many damn conflicting studies about whether or not you should eat bread. He'd spent too much time debating whether people should cut gluten from their diets. He couldn't think of anything right now. His brain was like a scrambled egg.

Matthew weakly reached out his hand for a slice of bacon and sadly chewed on it as Alfred looked on, eyes glazed over with worry.

"There, there." Alfred patted Matthew's back gently as Matthew just sobbed.

Bacon has sodium nitrate. Sodium nitrate can cause cancer.

Matthew didn't give a damn.

He took a fucking bite and fucking enjoyed it. Yup, tasty. Just like bacon ought to be.

He had no idea. He had no clue how he'd managed to finish an entire strip of bacon and an egg yolk. His appetite had really not been having it lately. He was never hungry. Whenever he ate he wanted to hurl. But he had no time to get that checked out. He, the former doctor, had no time to look up his own condition. He was too busy.

All Matthew knew was that now his stomach hurt and was just revolting at the pork belly. But pork belly is so good. Why does it have to be so unhealthy? Is saturated fat good or not? Matthew couldn't decide. That debate was for other people. Other better, smarter, more motivated people. Not Matthew. He just wanted to enjoy bacon and sausage and white bread without having to pour over a thousand medical journals.

Matthew made some gagging noises. He wasn't sure whether they came from the crying or if he really was going to be sick. He sat there, Alfred standing by him dutifully. What had Matthew done to deserve such a wonderful cousin?

He'd quit his future job. He's just thrown at all away, after Mom and Dad had spent thousands of dollars and hours to get him this far. He was lazy, so, so lazy. He was so lazy that he couldn't even fry up his own eggs and eat unless told to. He was so lazy that he really, really just couldn't, wouldn't work today. No way in hell could he go to the clinic, even if he hadn't quit in a flurry of cuss-words and screaming.

Oh, poor Arthur. Matthew felt so bad for yelling at him.

"Matthew? You there? Talk to me, please. Come on, cuz; you're scaring me." Alfred was shaking Matthew now, albeit gently. His voice was low, his hands careful yet steady. "Anything you need. Just say it, so that I can begin to help you."

"Flowers."

"Flowers?" Alfred questioned, clearly confused.

"Need," Matthew sputtered out. He sounded so pathetic. He was sitting here, crying uncontrollably as he tried to force another strip of bacon into his mouth. "Need flowers. Apologize to Arthur. I'm sorry. I screamed at him yesterday. I quit. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Matthew hiccuped.

"Okay, okay, we'll go to the store and get some flowers, but let's get you calmed down first, okay?" Alfred continued patting Matthew back. He continued saying gentle, comforting things just to calm Matthew down. He continued being there. He didn't leave. He was there every step of the way as Matthew let the deep, cold breaths enter his lungs.

Alfred gave Matthew a glass of orange juice.

"Oh, I remember this. I spent a fucking researching project writing up why orange juice is bad for you." Matthew gripped the glass firmly in his hands and downed it with a singular gulp. There. Done. Fuck medical school. Matthew didn't care.

Alfred chuckled. "You know, I never thought about that."

Matthew laughed back dryly. "Well, hopefully, I'll never have to think about that again."

"I hope that you don't have to, either."

Matthew spent most of the day on the couch. He didn't even watch TV. He just let his brain purge every single bit of information that he'd learned while training to become a doctor. Then, they'd get the flowers.

* * *

8:15 P.M.

Matthew and Alfred stood at their nearest grocery store. Matthew was bent over, hands and eyes inspecting a sad row of flowers.

It was the middle of winter, so they couldn't ask for much better. Half the flowers were shriveled, the other half had in all practicalities melted.

As Matthew sifted through a half-dead bouquet of daisies, Alfred was inspecting a shriveled package of roses, and finally, after what felt like the longest time of looking through bouquets, Matthew had somehow found a half-decent arrangement of sunflowers.

"Maybe that's a sign," Alfred joked as they walked to the checkout line. "They are sunflowers. Maybe sunnier days are up ahead for you."

Matthew smiled, if only a little bit. The cashier bagged the flowers, and while he felt guilty as hell since Alfred was the one who had to pay - Matthew's parents had just hours ago froze his bank account, which hurt Matthew emotionally less than it should have - Matthew had to make amends.

He didn't know whether to chalk it up to being Canadian or if this was the normal reaction to snapping at your coworker, but Matthew felt that he had to apologize. To Arthur, not his parents. No way was he apologizing to his parents. No fucking way. Not after everything they'd put him through. Not after forcing him into medical school, not after always calling him stupid and lazy and worthless hitting him hard with words, and definitely not after freezing his bank account.

They shouldn't have even had control of his bank account! Matthew was an adult; he's an adult who can buy as many goddamn flowers as he wants to.

Alfred whistled in sheer awkwardness as Matthew's credit card was declined.

After a brief argument and Matthew fumbling over his own words, Alfred paid.

They two cousins walked out of the store, an as-fresh-as-winter-would-give-them bouquet of sunflowers clutched tightly in Matthew's hands.

They hopped into Alfred's over-sized truck and drove the perilous, fifteen-minute journey to Arthur's apartment. On the way there, Matthew, in his messy doctor's handwriting, scribbled a big, fat 'SORRY' on the bouquet tag. Then he erased it and penciled in a neater apology. He was sick of doctoring. While he did that he forced his brain to remember the directions to Arthur's house from that one time they had met up together to do a group project.

As Matthew and Alfred stood in front of Arthur's door, Matthew holding the flowers and Alfred raising his hand to ring the doorbell, Matthew mentally prepared himself for the world's most awkward apology ever. He then also prayed to God that Arthur would be home.

He'd wasted the entire day crying and then searching for flowers, so he had good chances at nine at night, right?

The bell sounded, and the door opened, revealing a tired but there Arthur Kirkland.

"Matthew?" Arthur mumbled tiredly.

Matthew said nothing. He simply held up the flowers. His lips were too numb to even say a word, so Matthew just shoved the sunflowers into Arthur's hands.

Arthur looked confused. Very confused.

Alfred coughed. "Um, I think he wants you to look at the tag."

Arthur gingerly looked at the 'SORRY' label, and he read the apology out loud.

No one said anything for a while.

"Sorry," Matthew said softly after what felt like forever. "I wasn't mad at you; just the system. Please don't take it personally."

Arthur somehow took it in stride and smiled. "Oh, that's alright. Apology accepted."

That was it?

Arthur wasn't mad? Not mad at all? He didn't even yell at Matthew. He didn't even scream.

Oh, right.

Normal people don't verbally berate you for every mistake you make.

Matthew forgot that sometimes. He was still shocked when he'd spilled coffee on a coworker around a week ago, and she wasn't even mad.

"Come in! Come in!" Arthur insisted.

"No, no, we can't. I wouldn't want to intrude," Matthew replied, yet relieved that Arthur hadn't chewed him out.

"It's fine!" Arthur stepped aside, and with Alfred's encouragement, the two entered Arthur's apartment. "No problem, really. You literally went out of your way to apologize for this. That's got to count for something, right?" Arthur paused for a moment. When they were all inside the apartment, he spoke again. "I'll make tea."

"Good; my tea's awful," Alfred remarked. "I'm Alfred, by the way." The three shared a laugh. Matthew actually felt slightly at ease.

As the trio stood just beyond the front door, Arthur turned to the couch. The TV was on, and Matthew could just barely make out the shadow laying on the sofa's cushions. It must have been a roommate, Matthew figured.

"Gilbert, I hope you don't mind. I have some people over." Arthur crossed the living-room to the kitchen.

Matthew froze.

It couldn't be.

"Alright. Do what you want."

The voice was German - sorry, Prussian.

Red eyes.

White hair.

Skin pale like milk.

Gilbert turned to see who was there, and when red met purple the two just stared.

Alfred then caught wind of what was going on. He went silent for a while. Everyone did. There was a clang from the kitchen, then the sound of some steam.

"YOU." Alfred rushed up to Gilbert and got all up in his face. "What were you doing, flirting with my cousin like that?"

"Alfred!" Matthew groaned. He massaged his temples. As sweet as Alfred is, he's also a pain in the ass sometimes. And not the good kind of pain in the ass.

"Ah, well, if it isn't Matthew's chatty, annoying friend," Gilbert chuckled.

"You better watch yourself." Alfred leaned in even closer. His glare grew even harder. His voice was ice. His volume was dangerously low, but sharp as needles. "Dude, he's my cousin. Watching you motion anal sex to him was one of the most disturbing things I'd ever seen in my entire life."

"Well, at least it's not the most disturbing, ja?" Gilbert retorted. He must have put in the German on purpose. Gilbert's Prussian accent was strong, even more so as he and Alfred were facing off. Somehow Gilbert still managed to look just so damn pleased with himself as he winked at Matthew, then whistled at him.

"Well, then it definitely broke into the top five, ja?" Alfred spat back. Even for a pretend German accent, it was actually terrible. So, so terrible. Matthew would have laughed if it wasn't so tense between Alfred and Gilbert.

"You two, calm down," Matthew ordered, exasperation growing by the second.

"I'll calm down if he says sorry to you!" Alfred exclaimed.

"For what?" Matthew asked, unimpressed.

"For hitting on you. Damn flirt." Alfred looked ready to punch Gilbert. Best case scenario at this point was that he spat on him.

"No need to be so protective. I don't bite," Gilbert replied, feigning hurt.

"I don't trust you." Alfred turned his attention from Matthew back to Gilbert. "Listen, buddy, one step out of line, one wrong move, you're dead, got that?"

Gilbert didn't look scared, not scared at all.

"Ja, yeah." Gilbert rolled his eyes, his focus now more on the TV than on Matthew's 'oh, so scary' cousin Alfred.

"Tea's ready."

Arthur walked in, only to be confronted by a scary-looking Alfred, an uninterested Gilbert, and a flustered, if not slightly frustrated, Matthew.

"What in the world?" Arthur asked. A teapot and cups were clutched gently in his hands.

"Tell your stupid roommate that he can't be all flirty with my cousin!" Alfred barked. Matthew gulped. Alfred's eyes had actual fire in them.

Arthur's eyebrows went up. Suddenly, a look of realization spread across his face. "Gilbert?" Arthur asked, "is Matthew the one you've been talking about?"

Gilbert nodded, face smug and smooth and so damn amused at himself.

You could cut the tension in the room with a knife.

Matthew coughed. He shifted on the balls of his feet. "Um, guys," he said, voice soft. He was walking on eggshells, and he knew it. "I think we should just settle down. Al, could you pretty please look at Gilbert without murder in your eyes?" Matthew went silent again. He coughed once more. Arthur scooted towards the center of the room while Gilbert just kept flipping through the TV.

"Yes, yes, Matthew, Alfred, don't be shy. Have a seat, you two. Here, have some tea." Arthur seemed to have picked up the hint as he and Matthew jointly tried to defuse the situation.

With a huff, Alfred sat down on the couch as far as humanly possible from Gilbert. Alfred's arms were crossed, his face turned and his left side leaning so far into the couch's arm that he was almost tipping himself off the sofa.

Matthew awkwardly sat down in between the two, the gap between Alfred and Gilbert so hilariously wide it was big enough for him to comfortably lie down.

Arthur was just pouring tea, one cup for each of them. Matthew took his cup, Gilbert too. Alfred just looked pissed. Matthew looked over at his cousin; the man was fucking sulking. Arthur then sat on his recliner, and he and Matthew made eye-contact in their unofficial agreement to try and not escalate the tension between Alfred and Gilbert.

The four of them sat in silence, complete and utter silence. Arthur set a plate of sugar cubes on the table, and Alfred would have normally dumped a cup's worth into his tea. He didn't, though. He just tensely sipped at the cup, eyes occasionally darting towards Gilbert. Alfred had calmed down for sure, but his eyes were still like knives.

Gilbert, on the other hand, appeared to be slipping. His smirk turned into a flat line. Matthew could have sworn that he saw sweat drip down the man's face. As Gilbert lifted the cup there was just the slightest bit of trembling with his arm. The man continued flipping through channels, but at this point it was probably just for show.

Then, Matthew felt something. He looked and saw Gilbert's hand slip into his pocket, then out again. Gilbert retreated just as Alfred turned his head.

Matthew, while Alfred looked away again, took a peek into his pocket.

 _It's okay if I call you tomorrow?_

Matthew smirked and nodded at Gilbert. Gilbert winked. The two immediately turned away from each other as Alfred's watchful eye circled back around.

* * *

Friday, 8:34 P.M.

Matthew sat at Alfred's kitchen counter, face all flushed and heart racing like there was no tomorrow. Alfred had dinner plans with some friends, leaving Matthew alone for the night. Matthew's hair was damp from a recent shower and wrapped in a towel. He wore a loose t-shirt and some shorts, and he had to admit, that was the first good, relaxing shower he'd had in a while.

He found it nice. It was nice to enjoy showers again.

Gilbert had just called, and Matthew had never picked up the phone so damn fast.

"Allo, this is Gilbert Beilschmidt speaking." The Prussian accent rang as clear as day. "Is it you, Matthew?"

"Yes, yes! It's me, Gilbert."

"How are you?" Gilbert asked.

Matthew paused for a moment. He'd been having a lot of re-firsts lately.

This was the first time in around six months he'd had a decent shower.

Alfred yesterday had cooked Matthew the first good breakfast he'd eaten this year.

Gilbert was the first person other than Alfred to ask Matthew how he was doing. It was the first time in a long, long while.

It felt nice. It felt just so, so nice to be treated like a human, and more importantly to be human, again. Matthew felt himself melting. He'd been a robot for the past few years in all honesty. He felt the metal melt off him, the plastic wires get fried. The computer was shutting down, but bit by bit, little by little, the human that used to be there was returning.

"I'm doing okay. How about you?"

"You know me, doing awesome as always."

Matthew giggled at that. He smiled. It was a stupid smile, a lop-sided grin as Matthew felt a warm feeling pool in his chest. His heart was fluttering. The warm feeling continued to blossom, all throughout his body. "That's awesome, Gilbert. That's awesome."

They started talking.

And talking.

And talking.

And talking.

Poor, poor Alfred and his massive to-be phone bill.

They just kept talking, and all the while Matthew still had a stupid happy grin on his face. He swung his feet over the chair, had his cheek and chin rested luxuriously on the palm of his hand. Matthew felt so happy it was almost unreal.

Gilbert's jokes weren't even that good, but Matthew was laughing. Matthew didn't find himself all that clever, but Gilbert bit back playfully with something just as terribly cheesy. It was fun, just plain fun. Matthew was just enjoying it. The sound of Gilbert's voice. The jokes. The awful, awful one-liners. Just the feeling of knowing that he wasn't alone.

They were talking far into the night. Even when Alfred came back, Matthew shooed him away for the time being.

Matthew was happy, fluttering. He felt like he was glowing.

Then, Gilbert popped the question.

His voice was quieter. He got shyer. Matthew saw the question coming from a mile away, but it stunned him none the less. It hit him in the face like a tidal wave. He was short of breath. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He could only sit there like an idiot, legs swinging off the chair and phone cord wrapped tightly around his fingers.

"Hey, Matthew, I, I know this sounds sudden. You don't, you don't have to but. But it'd be nice. Maybe, you could, we could, you want to hang out some time?"

Matthew didn't say anything, not a thing at all for a solid minute. He was too stunned? Shocked? Surprised that anyone, anyone at all would want to hang out with him? Matthew Williams? The fucking loser whose parents had frozen his damn bank account? The person whose life was in such shambles that he had to rely on his cousin to pick up the pieces? The idiot who threw away his career, and for what? What did all that get him into?

Well, he was here now. That was good enough. It was good enough for now.

"Hey, you don't have to say yes. No hard feelings, it'd just be nice if - "

Gilbert didn't get to finish.

"Yes."

"Wait, what?"

"I'd love to go out with you, Gilbert."

Gilbert, this time, was the one who went silent.

"Is this a date, then?" Matthew asked.

No reply for another solid minute.

"Yes. A date."

"So it's settled."

"Meet me tomorrow night at my apartment? Say, six in the evening?"

"It'd be weird if it was six in the morning. I'm more of a night owl myself."

It was settled then. Matthew had a date.

As Matthew hung up, he realized something.

FUCK.

Matthew Williams had a date.

The world was about to fucking implode. Matthew's mind was about to explode.

He had no clue, no fucking clue whatsoever. Flirting was one thing. This would be his first date in years.

And definitely his first date with a guy.

Matthew sighed and asked himself why he had to be so damn gay.


End file.
